Unicorn Vengeance
Claire Delacroix
www.millsandboon.co.uk
For Konstantin, who invariably knows the score before I do
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Prologue
A sword age, a wind age, a wolf age. No longer is there mercy among men.
The Sybil’s Prophecy, circa 1000 A.D.
Montsalvat—August 1307
To think that idealism could dictate one’s end.
Wolfram watched his victim’s breathing slow until it stopped. He waited patiently for the next breath without really expecting it. When it did not come, he reached calmly to check the dead man’s pulse.
There was none.
Wolfram permitted himself a curt nod of satisfaction in a job well done and exhaled shakily.
It had been almost too easy, though this task could never be easy enough for him. Indeed, Wolfram had expected a king of kings to have better personal security and that his task would be more arduous. He spared a glance to the hall surrounding him, listening to the labored breathing of those slumbering with rising disgust.
A useless lot were these. The military man within him curled his lip at such behavior. They were all asleep, he observed, scanning the room once more to confirm the truth of that.
Not a single witness. Wolfram could hardly have planned it better. Unfortunate ‘twas for this ambitious lordling that he had not shown better judgment in selecting those around him.
Truly Alzeu de Pereille had brought this upon himself with his loose tongue and his poor security. Only too quick had he been to identify himself and spill his tale for Wolfram, despite the fact that he knew naught of Wolfram and that all his retinue slept drunkenly about him.
‘Twas beyond belief that a man could be so foolish. Now that his dreaded task was behind him, Wolfram released the breath he had not known he was holding and scanned the hall with new eyes.
He noted the disrepair of the stone walls and the flagstones in the floor that needed refitting. The sight recalled the impression of faded glory he had had on first entering the stables and hall of this old château. One might have expected more of a man of such apparent ambition, Wolfram thought wryly. He tugged on his gloves with economical gestures.
But then one would think that a man of power would realize that this drunken wastrel had offered no real threat to anyone. Wolfram could not imagine why he had been ordered here. But orders he had, and their very existence showed the dreamer Alzeu de Pereille to be a marked man. Should Wolfram have failed, another would have followed fast on his heels and Alzeu would have seen but a few more sunrises before meeting his Maker.
Wolfram considered the dead man once again and shook his head disparagingly in recollection of his fanciful tales. The lost king returning to stake his claim. The nonsense this man had spouted before the poison took effect was quite astounding.
Even more remarkable was the fact that Alzeu had apparently believed every word of it. This drunken wretch had truly believed that he was the culmination of a line of kings destined to rule by divine right. Incredible. Like something out of the old chansons it was, though everyone knew those days of chivalrous knights and magical maidens were long gone.
If indeed they had ever existed. Aye, Alzeu had but used such whimsy to his own ends.
Indeed, Wolfram had been remiss in feeling the slightest twinge of pity for this man, for this was one who twisted the dreams of others to his own benefit. Alzeu had been an opportunist, no more than that, and Wolfram wondered how many had been swayed into aiding him by the purely romantic appeal of his claim.
‘Twas revolting that a man could use others thus, and mayhap ‘twas that offense that had earned Alzeu de Pereille his due.
It mattered naught. Wolfram had fulfilled his orders, as usual, and had not another task ahead of him as yet. Truly, he would take his time in ambling back to Paris, for he did not look forward to the granting of another task. He would earn his keep in this way, for he had no other choice, but he would not hasten to gain another commission.
Suddenly he recalled Alzeu’s claim of a mark and eyed the corpse with curiosity. Could it be true? Should he check?
But nay. Wolfram resolutely stifled the impulse to look for his victim’s reputed birthmark. If it existed, it was probably as false as his claim to the throne. Whimsy ‘twas. No more than that. Wolfram snorted once to himself and spared another appraising glance over the hall before he stalked toward the stables on quick, quiet feet.
Had he heard something stir? Wolfram hesitated on the threshold, his heart in his mouth, and looked back over his shoulder with a frown. But nay, all was still. The keep was too silent for there to be another awake within it. He shook himself deliberately to shed the fanciful notion.
Truly, this place could addle a man’s wits. The fog shrouding the bailey and the stillness filling the keep troubled him more than he might have expected. Practical he was beyond all else, and generally immune to such fanciful notions as divinely appointed kings returning to rule all of Christendom. ‘Twas the fog alone that gave the tale any credence. Wolfram turned to leave, determined to put some distance between himself and enchanted Montsalvat this very night.
The gatekeeper had not even seen his face, Wolfram realized with sudden pleasure. ‘Twas a job well done, despite his earlier reservations, if he did say so himself.
* * *
Nay! It could not be thus!
Genevieve blinked, then peered around the corner once more. She knew not precisely what transpired below, but liked it naught. Alzeu still lay as motionless as he had when first she looked. Red wine spread lethargically from the spilled goblet to cover the plank of the table and drip onto the rushed floor.
The stranger bent over Alzeu and touched his throat. Genevieve huddled into the shadows and watched him as well as she could, instinctively distrusting him and his presence. He waited a long moment, almost as though he listened, then finally nodded with curt satisfaction. Not one of the unsavory crew of mercenaries Alzeu had hired was this one, for he was neatly groomed. Genevieve’s heart faltered with uncertainty. The stranger’s hand dropped away, and he surveyed Alzeu with a dispassionate eye.
Something had happened to Alzeu! And unless Genevieve knew less of the world than she thought she did, this man was responsible. He glanced up, and she caught her breath as she ducked back around the corner and closed her eyes. Her heart pounded in her ears, and Genevieve prayed he had not seen her.
Where had this man come from? The gate was barred, and no one could arrive so late. That he must have gained entry so late fed her doubts.
Surely she would have remembered such a man had he been amongst them earlier. She could not restrain herself from taking another peek around the corner, not daring to breathe even when she saw that he was completely unaware of her presence. He flicked a glance around the hall and donned his gloves with ease as he stared down at Alzeu.
With considerably more than her usual interest in the other gender, Genevieve noted his attributes. Tall of stature he was, broad-shouldered and well wrought. He was distinctively fair in coloring, more fair than any she had seen afore.
Nay, Genevieve would well have recalled this one. His hair was thick and straight but so light of hue that it seemed to have no color at all.
He moved with a deft grace that fascinated her, each motion accomplished with a minimum of effort and with an economy of movement.
Genevieve guessed that he did not act impulsively—that was a trait that consistently drew her into difficulties—and she was immediately envious.
He glanced up to scan the hall, and she caught her breath at the pallor of his eyes. Of the lightest gray they were, and she was reminded of the cold gaze of a wolf. His nose was straight, his cheekbones were high, his jaw was square and determined. His features might have been called handsome if his expression had not been harshly forbidding.
Well it seemed that he had judged Alzeu and found him wanting. Genevieve shivered despite herself at her impression. Instinctively she felt protective of her only sibling and glanced uneasily to his inert form.
What had the stranger done? Or was Alzeu merely asleep?
She eyed the stranger as he donned his helmet, unwilling to confront him before she knew precisely what had passed. Though ‘twas clear he meant to leave and she might have no opportunity to challenge him. Genevieve toyed with the idea of challenging him, but hesitated in the shadows.
For if he had wrought any evil, who would defend her here? Genevieve fidgeted indecisively. She alone remained awake, and even should they have awakened, this sorry lot of mercenaries would merely have rolled over to continue their dreams.
‘Twas best to wait until she knew the fullness of the tale.
The stranger glanced up suddenly, as though he sensed her presence, and Genevieve’s heart skipped a beat. He might see her! Then what would be her fate? She danced back into the shadows, wincing at the cold imprint of stone through her sheer chemise. She flattened her hands against the stone and pressed herself backward, as though she would render herself so small as to be invisible.
She dared not breathe, and all the while she cursed herself for standing and staring. ‘Twas unlike her to be so curious, though no time was there now to make sense of her response. Genevieve strained her ears, certain she would hear sounds of pursuit at any instant.
Naught but silence carried to her ears.
Just when she thought she could remain still no longer, she heard soft footsteps on the stone. They receded, one measured step at a time.
He was leaving. Genevieve sagged against the wall in her relief. Hoofbeats did she hear an eternity later, then silence filled the hall once more.
He was gone.
No sooner had the thought filtered into Genevieve’s mind than she was around the corner and down the stairs.
“Alzeu!”
He was too still. Genevieve saw it instantly and liked it naught. ‘Twas unnatural. She skidded to a halt beside her brother and touched his hand but it fell limply from his side. She touched his grizzled cheek gently, but he responded naught, even when she patted him more forcefully.
“Alzeu!” she cried in desperation, but he slept on. She gave his cheek a resounding slap, knocking the overturned chalice with her elbow and sending it rolling across the board. It dropped out of sight, landing on the rushed floor with a subdued thump and leaving a ruddy trail of wine.
With shaking fingers, Genevieve touched the spot on her brother’s neck where the stranger had touched him.
Naught. Her eyes widened in shock and disbelief.
Nay! She must be wrong! Was his flesh cooler than it should be? She touched a tentative finger to her own throat and felt the pounding of her heart echo beneath her fingertip.
Alzeu’s heart was still.
Nay! Anything but this! Naught had they but each other—he could not be gone!
“Alzeu! Awake! Do not leave me!” Genevieve frantically tried to revive her brother, the sense growing within her that ‘twas futile.
Alzeu merely lolled back on the bench, his form threatening to topple to the floor.
‘Twas unthinkable that Genevieve should be left alone. Alzeu could not be gone. He had promised to find her a spouse. He had promised that they would be safe here. He had promised her the security and stability of a new life. Genevieve’s vision glazed with tears, and she shook Alzeu, knowing in her heart that he would not awaken.
But Alzeu was departed and Genevieve had naught.
Tears rose to choke her, and she turned to glare at the portal to the courtyard. This stranger had done this. Somehow, in some way, he had stolen Alzeu’s heartbeat and, with that, taken the last of her family away from her and the last vestige of her hope. He had stolen Genevieve’s only dream as surely as if he had ripped it from her breast.
‘Twas his fault alone, and in that instant, Genevieve loathed the fair stranger with every fiber of her being.
But how had he taken Alzeu’s life? Was he a sorcerer? An assassin? No wound did Alzeu sport that Genevieve could see, and she frowned for a moment. She stared at the floor as she thought, and her gaze lit suddenly on the toppled chalice.
Her heart went still. It could not be.
On impulse, Genevieve dug the bloodstone from Alzeu’s pocket. In good intent had she given him this token, but he had been fool enough to neglect to use it. Too bold he had been with his declarations, too ready had he been to reveal his lineage to any who might listen. Filled with fear that bravado had been her brother’s undoing, Genevieve kissed the stone before casting it into the spilled wine.
The stone immediately turned black.
Alzeu had been poisoned. Genevieve’s lips set in a thin line of determination, and her eyes narrowed. Well enough did she know who had wielded that poison. There could be only one responsible.
And Genevieve de Pereille would see that he paid the price.
Who might have prompted his hand? Too fair was the stranger for these parts and she wondered what distant soul had seen fit to ensure her brother’s demise. Genevieve frowned at the bloodstone, struggling to think clearly before grief overwhelmed her. Their lineage granted them divine right to rule. Surely Alzeu had not dreamed...?
It mattered naught what Alzeu had dreamed. Genevieve knew her brother to have had more sense than that. Bold he was with his tongue, but naught else. Someone, though, had feared he nurtured the dream of his legacy.
And such a dream could be a threat only to someone in Paris. It had happened before and Genevieve’s confidence in her idea grew with the recollection. Fourteen years in the hills and the loss of both parents had Genevieve to show for such zeal from the crown.
Now the last of her family had been stolen away, as well.
Well it seemed that she might find the blond stranger making a path to Paris to deliver news of his success. Genevieve’s lips set stubbornly, and she squared her shoulders.
And well might that stranger be surprised to find the score was not settled as yet.
Chapter One
‘Twas weeks before she reached her goal.
Genevieve’s coin was gone when she stumbled through the gates of Paris, despite her care with it. The horse she had sold in the last town before Paris, yet the beast had not fetched much coin. She had walked the last distance and her shoes were now riddled with holes. The only thing of value she carried was her lute, but to part with it was out of the question, regardless of her hunger.
The lute contained her very soul. Indeed, it always had.
But Paris. ‘Twas beyond any expectation. Despite her exhaustion, Genevieve was revolted by its sprawl, its occupants and its stench. ‘Twas huge beyond compare. Impossible ‘twas to discern any pattern in the city’s layout, the veritable rabbit warren of streets confusing her almost as soon as she entered the gates.
It overwhelmed her every sense.
And the press of people was enough to drive her mad. Never had she guessed there could be so many souls in all of Christendom, let alone within the confines of one city’s walls. They pressed against her from every side, the casual touch of strangers flooding her with panic. ‘Twas confusing beyond compare for one raised in a small company, and Genevieve was disoriented in a span of time that might have been embarrassing, had there been anyone she k
new to note that fact.
‘Twas only as she gazed in confusion at seemingly endless yet unfamiliar walls and gates, towers and portals, that the resolve that had doggedly carried her this far faltered. How would she find Alzeu’s murderer in this place? Had she launched herself on a futile chase?
Never had she dreamed that Paris, or indeed any place at all, could be so large. She saw now that she had been a fool to imagine Paris as no more crowded than Montsalvat, where one might readily recognize all who dwelt within its walls. Indeed, she had never known any place larger and had not considered the matter overmuch.
Paris went on forever, each square much like the last, each street as filthy as the one before. Doubt and disappointment flooded Genevieve’s heart as she ambled closer to the heart of the city, for indeed she had little certainty that Alzeu’s killer had come here at all.
Or he could have come and gone in the time it had taken her to travel thus far.
Well it seemed that impulsiveness might have steered her false yet again. Genevieve might have come all this way for naught. Despair welled up within her, the smell of fresh bread doing naught to lift her spirits. Her belly growled, and she spared it a consoling pat, for that was likely all it would get this day.
“A bit of silver for a song!” cried a voice unexpectedly.
Genevieve’s was not the only head to turn, though her eyes widened when the slender man began to sing and the bustling crowd not only made space for him, but paused to listen. People smiled to each other and listened to his chanson as he stood with hands clasped before him and sang. Genevieve endured the press of alien bodies, some washed, some more odorous than she might have thought possible, to indulge her curiosity.
This, too, was new to her, but she intuitively guessed it might have import for her and eyed the man who had cried out with avid curiosity.
The minstrel appeared young at first glimpse, though his face was tanned and his shoulders were broader than those of a boy. His voice was remarkably clear and true. Despite his unkempt state, his features beamed with pride in his abilities as the song unfurled from his lips. Well could Genevieve understand, for she felt much the same satisfaction when she played her lute.
Unicorn Vengeance Page 1
